Friday, October 3:
Last night R. did not sleep well, either, though somewhat better. He reads Herr v. Hagen and works on copying his article.
At lunch we come to the subject of Marie Muchanoff and via her to women in general. R. says: “I cannot in fact talk to any woman. Now people might say that you have spoiled me; but previously I did not really know any of them.” Even Marie M., with her great and noble spirit, remained a stranger to him, in spite of her sympathy for him; probably what people said about her was to blame for that.
I tell him jokingly that he is too inventive and that this is why he does not see people in their true character, he makes them up for himself: if good, they disappoint him, if bad, they remain strangers to him!
Over coffee Crito was discussed again and defended by me.
R. goes to take a rest, and I do some shopping, during which I consciously notice our beloved town; the irregularity of the houses gives, as a sign of life, a more pleasing impression than all the ornaments on the more uniform modern houses, which look to me like the grinning countenance of death. Through the Brautgasse past the church and the house with the bay windows, much enjoyment at the sight, then farther down the hill and home via Birken—peculiar feelings of belonging here, which I impart to R. when I see him in the house; he has had some rest.
In the evening we play whist with Loldi for the first time, and at eleven o’clock we all go by omnibus to the station to fetch Lusch. The moonlight on the silent streets, the rattling omnibus, which forces us to keep silent, the unaccustomed journey, it is an absurd dream. Alarm caused by a man who suddenly appears at the door, then swings himself onto the carriage—all this puts us into the gayest of spirits, and we meet our child amid laughter and bear her home, where we drink champagne in welcome.